


Destinies are written by madmen

by scipianne



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Finds Out About Merlin’s Magic (Merlin), Death is not final, Gen, Immortal Merlin (Merlin), M/M, Magic Revealed, kinda angsty, kinda happy end, not a very healthy relationship, not native speaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22546066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scipianne/pseuds/scipianne
Summary: He’s mad with betrayal. Insane with hurt.And maybe, only maybe, if he wasn’t in such good mood, he would choose the long path, the scary path, the pyre, burning, his father overlooking from the balcony; but he was. So he is merciful. So he is quick.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 207





	Destinies are written by madmen

It happens simply. It happens quickly. It’s destined, perhaps.  
  
“Of course an idiot like you would stand behind the tree for the whole thing, Merlin. At least you didn’t hurt yourself” Arthur says while his servant undresses him after quite an eventful hunting trip. Bandits, it’s always bandits. Never a peaceful day.  
  
Merlin huffs indignantly.  
  
Arthur is in a good mood, however, and teasing is the result of day. Everything’s good. Camelot’s good. Hence, Arthur’s good.  
That’s why when he sees Merlin’s eyes go yellow and his bath become so wonderfully hot, he doesn’t shout. He doesn’t call for guards.  
  
“What was it?” He asks. And waits, terrified, for answer.  
  
He listens to Merlin’s stuttering about destiny. About protections. Of all things, what lies his servant chooses to tell!  
  
He’s mad with betrayal. Insane with hurt.  
And maybe, only maybe, if he wasn’t in such good mood, he would choose the long path, the scary path, the pyre, burning, his father overlooking from the balcony; but he was. So he is merciful. So he is quick.  
He slices Merlin’s throat.  
His hands are bloody.  
  
***  
What’s worse: the nightmares, the guilt, the betrayal, looks given him by Gaius, Gwen, Morgana?  
  
Looks given him by himself from mirror, in peace of his own room?  
  
***  
When they come for Camelot, they are silent. They are powerful. They are horrifying.  
  
The main one calls himself The Sorcerer.  
  
“Names have power” he says, drawing sword at Arthur’s throat.  
  
“And the name Pendragon is destined to burn” he says, throwing his father and Morgana to the dungeons.  
  
The citadel is taken in an hour. No force can equal invadors’ magic.  
There is no hope.  
  
***  
“Look at it” says The Sorcerer. “Look closely and remember it. All of this belongs to me now. Always will. And you are never ever going to have it back. Do you realize it yet? Or is there still hope somewhere deep in you? That something would happen? You would be saved, perhaps?”  
  
Arthur really wants to spit him in the face. Really. Possibly not the best action in this situation, though.  
  
“I should just burn everything, probably” The Sorcerer says conversationally. “But unfortunately, I have plans for your little citadel. And there are so many way more fun things I should do to you, sweet prince, than mere killing. Don’t worry. You’d love our life together.”  
  
They are on the balcony, overlooking guards in unfamiliar clothes standing in the square. They look wrong. They look like the rash of horrible illness taking over the city. Arthur feels sick. It is his city, his people, his responsibility. And yet it‘s ill with blood of innocents. Disgraced with forces of evil.  
  
Then it happens; a figure emerges from the shadows, in long black cloak. Something about him catch Arthur’s eye, like something is wrong with the stranger. And yet something is right.  
  
Guards block his way. There is probably a conversation. The Sorcerer doesn’t appear to notice the commotion; he is looking ahead, all in thoughts, and wouldn’t it be for his grip on Arthur’s shoulder, still as firm as before, Arthur may think he is completely out of reality for now. Not Arthur, though.  
  
The stranger doesn’t want to back off; voices are raised — Arthur can hear them. And then, out of the sudden the guards fly in different directions, pushed by invisible force.  
Magic. It was magic. But what were it intentions? Was it bad? Was it against The Sorcerer?  
Arthur forces these thoughts to shut up; since when he views sorcery as a possible source for good?  
Well. He knows since when.  
  
The magic catches attention of The Sorcerer, though; he looks down, to the figure of the stranger, and smiles.  
  
“It seems we have a guest” he says. “Let’s go meet him, shall we?”  
  
He isn’t scared, or worried, just intrigued. Arthur feels a sudden compassion for the stranger, although it goes away, as he is manhandled to the throne room.  
  
“We have a guest!” The Sorcerer announces to the room. His minions, spread all over the hall, come to attention. Whispers begin to haunt the room. “I don’t know yet who is he — or she! — but we’ll have the pleasure of meeting them and possibly killing them any minute now.”  
  
Arthur cringes in disgust at show of anticipation provided by the room of sorcerers. He killed a lot, that was part of being prince, but he understood a burden of murder, weight of it. These people — sorcerers — are enjoying it. Reveling in it.  
  
They wait, all of them, sorcerers in bright clothes, Arthur on his knees, shackles on his arms, staying beside the throne occupied by The Sorcerer. That is humiliating, yes, but even in this morbid situation he carries himself proudly. Bound and helpless, but still a prince. He is waiting with dark anticipation, not hope. Even if the stranger is a good one, even if he is opposed to The Sorcerer, he is still one man. Due to die here at the hands of invaders.  
  
A sudden crystal thought comes to Arthur: what of Morgana and his father? Of him? Will they meet their end here as well, surrounded by laughing monsters?  
His death is easy to accept. His family’s — not as much.  
  
The doors fly open. The stranger comes.  
His face is hidden; only small parts of hands were visible. His posture is right, and his appearance has some weight to it.  
  
“Well, hello” says The Sorcerer mockingly. “Would you care tell us the reason of your visit? I didn’t quite recall inviting you, you know.”  
  
The stranger stays silent for couple of moments. Waiting. Listening to the hall. Then says:  
“Give me Arthur Pendragon.”  
  
His voice is thunder. His appearance’s a menace.  
And yet something is off, something feels familiar to Arthur, something makes him uneasy and hopeful inside.  
  
“Why, that’s a good one. Why will we do that?” laughed The Sorcerer. “Mina?”  
  
A girl in green clothes stands in front, one of the sorcerers, young and ruthless. Arthur rememberers her throwing curses at his knights. She rises her arm, preparing to cast. Stranger doesn’t stir. Doesn’t move.  
  
A lightening stroke — and she is dead. Disintegrated.  
By actual sodding lightening inside the castle.  
  
Everyone is silent.  
  
“You will give him to me” the stranger says. “Because he is mine”.  
  
Arthur trembles.  
  
The Sorcerer rises from his throne, menacing as ever.  
  
“You will die” he says, and there is no laugh in his voice this time, no smile. Only menace.  
  
“I’ve been dead before. Do you want to lose your people? Perhaps, yourself?”  
  
The stranger’s voice is somehow more terrifying than The Sorcerer’s; it is because he is so calm, Arthur realizes. So detached and simple.  
  
Then there is silence, and some invisible, mental battle between The Sorcerer and the stranger; Arthur doesn’t catch it, doesn’t feel magic in the air, but knows somehow it’s there. At last The Sorcerer stumbles, and something close to fear shows on his face.  
  
“You are Emrys, aren’t you?”  
  
Stranger just nods.  
  
“Fine. You can take the prisoner. Goddess knows you should hate Pendragons.” And The Sorcerer turns to the throne, keeping his face from his people, but Arthur catches a glimpse of his expression: unadulterated fear.  
  
The stranger — Emrys — wields some horrible power, and Arthur is given to him. Traded.  
And yet the hope in his chest, rising every time he heard Emrys speak, just grows. He is supposed to be horrified, helpless, not hopeful, he tells himself.  
Well, maybe it would be easier to escape from one captor.  
  
***  
When they are far enough from the castle to not be seen by anyone, Emrys turns to Arthur, still silent, still in his cloak, and helps him out of his bounds. Shackles drop to the ground, silenced by grass.  
  
“It’s not normal for captors to free their prisoners, you know that?” says Arthur.  
  
Honestly, he is too tired to deal with this situation, the stranger, strange feelings he has towards the guy. He hasn’t slept for three days. He’s seen his kingdom go down. It’s exhausting.  
  
Emrys is silent. His hands are slim and tender, but definitely male. Arthur looks at them for the lack of anything to give attention to.  
So when Emrys removes the hood, it takes him a moment to look at his face.  
  
“Hello, Arthur” Merlin says.  
  
He sounds — and looks — just as exhausted. There is a horrible scar on his throat, and no neckerchief for once to hide it.  
Arthur feels something breaking inside him.  
  
***  
They are at forest, at hiding place chosen by Leon and other escaped knights. There are some common people as well. Gaius and Gwen — them Arthur notices and so glad to see.  
Of course, they are not looking at him. Not now. Not when Merlin is at his side.  
  
“Oh my...” Gwen whispers, and is ready to weep happily, it seems, and Gaius is just here, giving his friend — son almost — a bone-crushing desperate hug.  
  
Merlin smiles. Probably. It’s a crooked smile, not at all his usual grin from before. It’s a seen line between before and after; it can be sensed. It’s almost visual.  
  
“How on earth... my boy!” Gaius says, and Arthur sees a tear making way down his cheek.  
  
Arthur looks and doesn’t want to look and can’t stop looking.  
  
“I’m immortal, apparently. Er. It’s a magic thing.”  
  
Immortal. Powerful enough to make The Sorcerer fearful.  
Still it feels wrong to access Merlin as a threat, not him, not in the world. You already did it, though, says a little voice in Arthur’s head. Already thought of him as a threat, just for a second, but it was enough. Enough to ruin everything.  
  
Arthur goes away.  
  
***  
“Why are you doing this?”  
  
“Doing what?”  
  
“Helping us. Me.” Arthur’s face is full of conceived distress.  
  
“I’m your servant, aren’t I?”  
  
“But how can you... after all that’s happened?”  
  
Merlin is silent for a while; his face is blank, unreadable, as if carved in stone. There is some detached kind of beauty to him; Arthur is drown to him, so familiar and yet so distant.  
  
“Do you honestly think I would care for you less now?” He says. His eyes soften, but there is certain wisdom there.  
Memory of death.  
  
“You should. I...”  
  
“It was nothing I wouldn’t expect.”  
  
“But you shouldn’t expect that!” Arthur feels the heat uprising in his body. Feels the familiar fire of defending what’s right.  
  
“I’ve seen you executing my kin before. Why should I expect anything less for me?”  
  
The silence is ringing.  
  
“Do not worry about me,” Merlin says at last. “I will help you. I will march beside you and see you win. As always. That’s my place, my destiny.”  
  
He smiles, but the smile doesn’t quite go to his eyes, and he looks somewhere beside Arthur, and goes away, silent and elegant, so different from loud, clumsy presence he had before. He looks... ethereal. Like a ghost or a wronged memory.  
Arthur’s heart breaks a little watching him go.  
  
***  
When they come for Camelot, it is a night. Swords are bathed in moonlight. Leon is just behind Arthur, loyal as ever. Guinevere is with them, sword in her hand; it would take a madman to stand in her way. The knights are silent. Ready to fight and die.  
Merlin is behind them. Silent and ghostly as ever.  
Ready to kill for Camelot.  
  
It’s a swirl of events, as any battle is; swords fly, spells are cast. People are dying. Arthur is in the middle of a battle, and he doesn’t see it strategically, he is fully in it.  
He sees, though, the lightenings. Feels the force fields protecting him from curses and blows.  
  
Finally he meets with The Sorcerer, who looks smaller, less significant. Failure doesn’t suit him.  
  
“I don’t need your name to have a power on you” he says, and runs him with the sword.  
  
The battle’s won. All ends.  
  
***  
“You know it’s not safe for you to stay in Camelot. My father...”  
  
“What’s he gonna do? Kill me?”  
  
Merlin grins. It’s his usual grin, before grin. Arthur’s not supposed to feel in a way this grin makes him feel. He stutters.  
  
“I’ll figure something out” Merlin says easily, as if deceiving king of Camelot is something he does before breakfast.  
He does though, doesn’t he?  
  
They stay alone at the border. Arthur is still covered in blood from the battle, Merlin still wears his black warlock cloak. It suits him, strangely.  
  
“You will not get rid of me that easily. That, if you’ll still have me.”  
  
“I will” says Arthur, suddenly hoarse. “Will you have me? After all this?”  
  
“Ah, of course. You’re mine, remember?” Merlin looks at him, and there is fire in his eyes. “My destiny, I mean. My friend?”  
  
Somehow, Arthur thinks, the word “friend” isn’t the right one here.  
  
“I’m yours” he says softly.

**Author's Note:**

> Merlin in disguise: Arthur Pendragon is mine!  
> Arthur: pissed off and yet turned on


End file.
